


his serenities, which were so few

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Facial Shaving, Injury, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Season/Series 03, minor dysphoria, minor nonbinary jonathan sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: After Jude Perry, Jon can't shave himself. Martin offers to help.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 79
Kudos: 446





	his serenities, which were so few

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dathen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dathen/gifts).



> Title is badly translated from Yehuda Amichai's "my father was"/"אבי היה". Many thanks to Bloodbane for beta!

Jon's stubble itches.

Of the many complaints he has, surely that is the least important, but it bothers him in a way he refuses to delve into. Averting his face from his reflection is a habit by now: in the last few months he frequently had no time or energy to shave. But even without the visual evidence of how out of place it looks on him, he hates the feeling of it, scratchy and _wrong_.

It's not an impending ritual of the world ending by way of murderous clowns; it's not even the tense silence of the archives, so thick you could cut it with a knife. It's just close enough to home to constantly bother him.

It doesn't matter. He can't do anything about it. Shaving supplies could be arranged, he supposes, but his burnt hand is still out of commission.

"Is everything alright?"

Jon just barely keeps himself from jumping. It's only Martin, hovering in the doorway with a mug of tea, a faint echo of what normalcy used to look like. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

Martin sets down the mug, a quiet _thump_ as it hits the desk. "You're rubbing at your cheeks."

Jon awkwardly puts down his left hand. "It's nothing big. Nothing to worry about."

Martin hesitates for a moment, but then says, "I don't know. If it's a small thing, then maybe it's fixable." _Unlike everything else_. The unspoken words hang heavily above both of them.

"Not unless you know someone who wants to shave me," Jon says, then clamps his mouth shut, face heating.

Martin flushes as well, the color vivid on his fair skin. "I mean, if that's what's bothering you, I could--" He also decidedly shuts his mouth, closing his eyes tightly as well. He opens them and affects a too-bright smile, one even Jon can tell is fake. "Sorry, sorry. Of course you didn't mean that."

Jon should take that out, accept Martin taking the blame on himself as usual. Let it be Martin who spoke inappropriately, misunderstood Jon's sarcasm.

Maybe Jon just doesn't have the heart to do that to Martin anymore. "If you genuinely didn't mind, I would like that," he says, slow and halting. "I wouldn't want to presume, or be a bother."

Martin's eyes widen. "Oh! No, not at all. Happy to help."

* * *

Jon thought they might do it at the restroom, but Martin pointed out there was no reason not to shave in Jon's office. "It's not like you need a mirror," he said, "and I'm going to bring you hot water anyway, from, from the kitchenette. Just make some space in case I spill something." While Martin is gone, fetching the required supplies, Jon occupies himself with tidying.

By the time Martin comes back, the desk is clear. Martin sets down a bowl of gently steaming water with a kitchen towel draped over it, a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor. "This isn't the best," Martin says, looking fretfully at the razor, "but it's what I have on hand. I could go out and--"

"Thank you," Jon says. The words feel rusty on his tongue. "This will be fine."

A surprised smile dawns on Martin's face. "Of course," he says softly. "Here, tip your head back." He dips the towel in the water, wrings it and touches it to the inside of his wrist. "Tell me if it's too hot," he says, as he brings the cloth close to Jon's face.

"It's good," Jon mumbles, and Martin puts the towel on his face. It's a little weird, more fuss than Jon usually bothers with when he shaves himself. It is nice, though, the warmth seeping into his skin. He hadn't noticed being cold before.

They sit in silence for a short while, and then Martin removes the towel. Jon holds himself to keep from chasing the heat of it.

Martin spritzes some shaving foam into his hand and smears it over Jon's face. Halfway through, he pauses. "Oh, shit, I should have asked you if you wanted to do this part yourself. You can finish it, if you like."

Jon doesn't move, doesn't answer. He isn't sure what he'd say, and in any case, he does not want a mouthful of foam. He shrugs instead.

"Right. Right." Martin finishes it, fingers gentle and light on Jon's face. "Now, don't move. I've only ever done this to myself, and I'd hate to nick you."

Jon takes a deep breath and settles in his seat. He closes his eyes without thinking about it. Martin's hand holds his jaw like it's something precious and delicate. The first touch of the razor is cold, but Jon doesn't startle.

As the razor swipes over his cheeks, it's easy to sink into the rhythm of it. Martin's hands are steady, surprisingly deft for their size. At Martin's nudge, he tips his chin up, letting Martin scrape the razor up his throat, so very careful. He hears the faint ring of the razor as Martin washes it in the water bowl. Martin's thumb whispers over Jon's upper lip, shaving the hairs under his nose. Finally, Martin cleans his face with the still-moist towel.

"All done," Martin says. His voice shakes a little. Jon opens his eyes.

Habit had him tensed up to see his own face. Seeing Martin's instead, incongruously close, is a pleasant shock. Martin's pupils are dilated, black almost swallowing the hazel. Jon could count his freckles.

Another sort of tension is missing. Jon knows, distantly, that Martin is interested in him. With Martin's face so close, it seems natural that Martin would follow up the shave with a kiss, a reward for his hard work.

But Jon knows in his bones that Martin wouldn't. Wouldn't even consider it. Not out of shyness - or, yes, some of that. But mostly because Martin wouldn't assume that Jon wanted that kiss, and that Martin would never, not in a million years, kiss anyone who didn't want it. Jon is utterly, completely safe with him. 

It makes Jon ache. Martin is so kind, so ridiculously good. He deserves the same devotion he'd borne for so long, so thanklessly. Jon needs him to know this.

Words fail. Instead, Jon takes Martin's hand. He's slow, watching Martin's reaction, waiting for him to pull away. Martin swallows, but remains stock still as Jon takes Martin's hand and brings it to his lips. The kiss is a small thing, dry, barely more than a peck.

"Oh," Martin whispers, voice trembling now like an aspen in a storm. "Jon." He sounds like he might cry.

Jon freezes, Martin's hand still so close to his lips. He clears his throat. "Should I not have done that?" 

"Only if you didn't really want to. And in that case, I'm the one who should apologize."

"That," Jon informs him, "makes no sense." He shifts his fingers around to lace them with Martin's. The ache in Jon's chest is only growing. "I did want to. I want..." he shakes his head in frustration. "Everything is so...." he trails off, helplessly.

"It really is, isn't it?" Martin sighs. "It's okay." Where does he keep all that kindness? It's ridiculous. "If you decide in the morning you want to forget this, that's okay."

"You'll forget it?" Jon's brow furrows. He's not sure he likes that idea.

"Oh, I will definitely remember," Martin says. "But I won't bring it up, if you'd rather not."

Jon traces his finger over Martin's knuckles. "What do you want?" he counters.

"I want..." Martin considers, then firmly says, "I want you to have a good dinner and a good night's sleep. And not make any hasty decisions you'll regret."

Jon feels like shaking him, like arguing that he knows what he wants and what he's doing. He is stopped by the knowledge that he has, in fact, no clue about either. All he knows is that Martin feels like safety, like a warm place where Jon is always welcome. "Have you eaten?" Jon asks, a peace offering.

Martin brightens. "Chinese?" At Jon's nod, he goes to order, fingers moving rapidly on his phone. Jon stares at him, marvelling at the unfocused, unnamed feeling inside him.

His lips burn. It feels like a promise.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Barber Gives You a Relaxing Shave ~😴](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27447163) by [Ohata_kaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohata_kaki/pseuds/Ohata_kaki)




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